


your name like a song i sing to myself

by andanteavians



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: 5+1 Things, And Lots of It, Angst, Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, POV First Person, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Self-Hatred, Watford (Simon Snow), the inherent homoeroticism of being called one's name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25134601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andanteavians/pseuds/andanteavians
Summary: “Simon, are you all right?” I asked again, now with a tinge of desperation.He looked up suddenly, though with the same distress on his face, “You’ve never called me that before.”Or, five times Baz accidentally called Simon by his first name, and one time he did it on purpose
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 6
Kudos: 130
Collections: Carry_On_Summer_Exchange_2020





	your name like a song i sing to myself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Simon_snows_pitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simon_snows_pitch/gifts).



> After far too much procrastination, it is here!
> 
> This is my gift to [Simon_snows_pitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simon_snows_pitch) for the Carry On Exchange! I was given the prompt "pre- or post-Carry On," and I included both in the story because I'm an overachiever. I hope you like it!!
> 
> Thank you to my beta [Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire) for all your help and encouragement! 
> 
> Title comes from Richard Siken's poem "Saying Your Names."

**1.**

I had come into my first year at Watford expecting to immediately feel at home. This school had been my mother’s territory, once. Most of the teachers had loved my mother, and they all knew me. Watford was, for all intents and purposes, where I had been raised as a young child, and I knew that it was my destiny as Natasha Grimm-Pitch’s son to belong there.

For the most part, I was right. 

The one caveat was Simon Snow. 

Of course, as a Pitch, I hated him immediately. The second that the Crucible dragged us together (though I did my best to walk with dignity, as befits a Pitch, rather than be haplessly pulled along as he was) I could feel _it_ —his magic _._

It was intense, electrifying. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to stay close to this rather scrappy boy or run away forever.

He was the Chosen One. And thus, as I had been taught by my father and aunt, I hated him. 

Unfortunately, he was still my roommate.

So throughout our first year, I antagonized him. It wasn’t hard. Despite his immense magickal power, Snow had a pitiful amount of control over it. Nearly every spell he attempted in class ended in failure. 

And his diction made it even worse because, _Crowley_ , it was abysmal. He stuttered, sputtered, slurred words together—and that was just in English! When it came to Greek and Latin, well, it was a sight to behold. 

I excelled, of course. I was my mother’s son, and I could weave circles around Snow with my words. I used them as weapons against him, taunting him for his inadequacies ( _the worst Chosen One to ever be chosen_ ).

Was it mean? Certainly. Did I feel bad? Absolutely not. 

(Father and Aunt Fiona said that he was the enemy, that he was the Mage’s little golden boy, that I would have to kill him someday.) (So I couldn’t let myself feel bad.)

It wasn’t like he didn’t defend himself, either. Although at first he was too timid, eventually Snow (the brute) would tackle me if I made a comment too cruel. He couldn’t speak, but he certainly could fight.

It was exhilarating. But fighting him also had the side effect of making me lose some of my strict control over my words. 

The most frustrating thing during our first year at Watford was not the bruises Snow gave me, though, or his gross incompetence at magic, or even his sloppiness (though that drove me up the wall)—it was that damned red rubber ball.

Snow insisted on bouncing it constantly. Most of the time, he was able to control it during class, but as soon as he returned to our room? I’d hear that ball all the time. With my enhanced hearing, I could never escape it. 

It was near the end of our first year that I finally snapped. While I was studying for our final exams (not that I really needed to, but I refused to be one-upped by Bunce), Snow wasn’t even trying, of course, just sitting at his desk and— _Aleister Crowley_ —bouncing that rubber ball against the wall. Over and _over_ and _over._ Driving me absolutely mad. 

After minutes passed by and the bouncing didn’t cease, I walked over to Snow, grabbing the ball.

“What the fuck, Baz?” Snow cried. I ignored him, already opening the window.

I hesitated for a second and then tossed the ball into the moat for the merwolves’ dinner. 

Snow didn’t immediately lunge at me, as expected. Rather, as I turned around to look at him, he was silent—but with a look of despair on his face.

My stomach tightened upon noticing that. I had never seen Snow wear this expression before. Anger, I could handle. Frustration was nearly an everyday occurrence with his performance in class. He would get a bit pouty when he arrived in the cafeteria late for a meal, as well. But until then I had never seen Snow well and truly broken up. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he started to cry.

As a Pitch, as the rival of the Chosen One, I shouldn’t have felt even the smallest bit guilty. Instead, I should have even felt elation. But I couldn’t help it. Crowley, wouldn’t my mother be ashamed of me (though I knew she was already, with my… affliction).

Sighing, I swallowed my dignity, “Are you all right, Snow?” 

He remained unresponsive, and my stomach grew even tighter. Even without that feeling (which definitely was _not_ guilt), though, there was another issue. If Snow remained unresponsive, well, I didn’t want to know what the Mage would do to me after losing his precious golden boy.

“Simon, are you all right?” I asked again, now with a tinge of desperation. 

He looked up suddenly, though with the same distress on his face, “You’ve never called me that before.”

And _Crowley_ , I did call him Simon, didn’t I? Absolute _bollocks_. That’s closer than I can possibly be allowed to be with him, the _Mage’s Heir_. It wasn’t rivalrous, it was _kind_ , it was— 

I could almost hear the sound of my mother rolling over in her grave.

_Pull yourself together, Baz._

“I’m sure that I don’t know what you’re speaking about, Snow. Now, I recommend that you actually begin to study if you don’t want to fail,” I said, returning to my desk. 

I almost couldn’t wait for this school year to be over.

* * *

******2.**

 _“Complete control, even over this song!”_ the car speakers blasted as Fiona drove me away from Watford.

It was the end of my third year at Watford, and I was quite glad to be returning home. I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Father and Daphne all the time, but at least I would have my own room once again.

Not to mention three whole, blissful months away from the disaster of a mage that was Simon Snow.

My hatred of him had only increased since first year, and with that, our fights and shared taunts and yelling. Snow gave just as good as he got (for the most part. I was still far superior at actually insulting him), which helped to eliminate the guilt from the beginning. We were fully nemeses now, just as my family expected of me.

(Fully nemeses. No guilt left. I hated Snow and that was it. QED.)

Also, he was just plain obnoxious.

“He doesn’t care about anyone other than himself,” I complained to Fiona over the sound of the Clash. “His side of the room is always messy, and whenever he spectacularly fails a spell in class, he starts smoking. He literally emits _smoke_ because of his frustration, Fiona.” 

“Well, at least you’re not going to have any trouble beating him in the end, kiddo. Makes you wonder, though, how the Chosen One could have no control whatsoever of his magic.”

“You should see when he goes off, Fiona! It’s terrible—the magic around him just gets more and more intense as his anger grows. And then he explodes.”

She chuckled dryly, “I wonder why the hell the Mage chose _this_ kid.”

“There’s no one else with his level of magickal power, I suppose. He’s the worst roommate because of it, though. The room always smells like his magic—this awful smoky, sticky scent” I continue complaining to my aunt. “It gives me migraines. At least it’s always amusing to taunt him. He starts smoking, and the air around him starts shimmering with heat; it’s the best reaction,” I practically chuckle. “Too bad I couldn’t get the chimera to come this year, that would have scared him bad. I had to shelf the idea. ” 

“You may be your mother’s son, kiddo, but I’m glad that you’re also my nephew.”

I smiled a bit and leaned against the window. Fiona comparing me to my mother never failed to boost my confidence. (Helped me to forget that my mother would hate me for what I was, for being the same as the monsters who killed her, for never being good enough.)

“You really have to wonder where that Robin Hood wannabe found the Chosen One, though,” Fiona spoke up again. “I guess we all felt his magic that day, but before that? Where the hell was he?”

“Well, he seems to be-”

She cut me off, “I bet he was living in luxury, don’t you? Maybe with the Mage, that motherfucker gets quite a salary if it’s anything like Tasha’s. Where else would the Mage entrust the Chosen One? Probably tried to give him special training—not like it made much of a difference, compared to you, Baz,” she gave me a proud look. “He has a fuckton of power, but with that control, he’s never going to be able to beat you. Even with all their strategizing, you’ll slaughter him, I’m sure.” And she went on like that for another few minutes. 

Fiona was always trying to blame _something_ on Snow; to justify her hatred of him, I was sure. And, much as I loved her (so much more than Father, at least she cared about me and not just _Daphne)_ , this rant made my stomach twist.

Because I hated Snow so much it hurt sometimes. His stupid magic, his obnoxious behavior, his constant stupidity, his over-the-top gluttony drove me mad. The way he made _me_ feel when I was in a room with him, how I struggled to keep control of myself in his presence. 

But he wasn’t quite a mastermind plotting against the Old Families the way Fiona wanted to paint him, was he?

For one, he was much too stupid to be so. Also, with his scruffy haircuts, beat-up clothes, and atrocious manners, I rather doubted that he had been raised well (though that didn’t count out the Mage).

Not to mention, all her talk of slaughtering him made my stomach twist even more. I knew it was expected of me by the Families (made me important, kept me safe from those who might know something _more_ about me), but _killing_ Snow? Too much to think about right now (and I was useless and defective and hated myself for this weakness, but I digress).

I tried to defend him a bit, to stop this topic from making me feel sicker. “Fiona, I… don't think that the Mage trained Simon. You’ve never seen him try to use magic or fight—he’s useless,” I laughed weakly. 

“Simon…?” My heart would have stopped if I weren’t already dead. “Well, I guess you’d know better than me, kiddo. Probably better to train more this summer, though, don’t go getting soft on me now.”

_Thank magic._

“I would never,” I replied. Then I turned the volume on the stereo up.

* * *

**3.** ****

It was during our fifth year that Snow became practically obsessed with me.

Not that he hadn’t been obsessive at times before. Theorizing as to what I could be “plotting” all the time did not make a well-adjusted person (as if I had any right to judge).

But this was different. Because not only was he just unabashedly _stalking_ me, he was doing so because he thought that I was a vampire.

Which I was, of course. Unfortunately. (And I deserved a painful, fiery death because of it, but so what?)

But Snow was determined to prove it so that he could officially get me thrown out of Watford. Which I couldn’t help but understand to an extent—I was a monster, I needed to drink literal blood for my survival, my mother would probably kill me for being this way, et cetera. 

But me, a Pitch, being thrown out of Watford? I might as well die a second time over.

My one solace in this awful year was, surprisingly, the Catacombs.

(Which only made me _more_ of a vampire stereotype, but c’est la vie.)

Not only did they provide me a relatively private place to find rats and suck out as much of their putrid blood as possible, but I was also provided a reprieve from Simon Snow’s near-constant presence.

Well, for the most part. 

After inevitably getting hopelessly lost in the labyrinth, most nights Snow would simply abandon his search and head back to our room to wait up for me. (He almost always fell asleep before I came back, the imbecile.) But as the year wore on, he started to get a better grasp of the twists and turns of the Catacombs, making me have to find even more obscure and winding routes in order to feed, possibly get drunk, and not be caught. 

It was infuriating, I mused as I leaned against a stone wall. 

I had already fed for the night, but I felt no desire to get back to my room, where Snow would undoubtedly harass me about anything and everything. Crowley, why had even my own room ceased to be a refuge?

And even if Snow somehow happened to be asleep, I’d still be awake and alone with him. That was almost just as bad, these days. Because then I could just look at him for hours and feel— _that_. I wasn’t enough of an imbecile to not recognize the feeling, but it was easier to not acknowledge it for now.

Really, it was better to just stay down here for a while longer. I had recently refilled my flask, too, so I could drink my teenage angst away. 

Pathetic for the Pitch heir? Certainly. I took a swig.

It was fine. Everything was perfectly fine. I was doing well. I had not fallen in lo—begun to be physically attracted to my roommate, otherwise known as the Mage’s Heir and the person that my family expected me to kill someday. It was fine.

My life was an absolute shitshow. 

Ah look, I had already broken out the Normal swearing. I took another swig of vodka and coughed. 

Dev and Niall had once told me that I was a melancholy drunk. Somehow this never stopped me on nights like these, but still. I was lucky that Snow most likely wouldn’t find this corner of the labyrinth. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be all that bad if he did, though. Maybe he’d see me and feel some sort of sympathy (not that I _needed_ sympathy; I was a Pitch) and help walk me back to our room and into bed and maybe—just maybe—kiss me goodnight. Or snog me for hours before having passionate sex; I wasn’t picky.

Ha. Yes, the painfully heterosexual Simon Snow—while dating _Agatha Wellbelove_ —would kiss me goodnight. My father might as well accept my sexuality.

I could imagine trying to tell him, though: “Yes, Father. I, your vampire son whom you are already ashamed of, am a flaming homosexual. Yes, I am in love wi—attracted to Simon Snow, the Chosen One. I hope you find this acceptable.”

Ha. I lifted up my flask and took a swig.

Or maybe, more likely, Snow would find me drunk and helpless and decide to just end it all here. No legendary final battle, no epic standoff—just the Mage’s Sword, like a stake, through my heart. Quick and easy. 

Maybe it would be for the best; the Chosen One nobly ridding the world of the evil vampire.

And then I wouldn’t have to see Snow’s nauseating happily ever after with Wellbelove. I took a swig at the very thought.

And that was just the problem, wasn’t it? One day, Snow and I would have to fight to the death. And I couldn’t possibly stand to kill him because I was—fine, I’d admit it—in love with him.

I was in love with Simon Snow. The Simon Snow who despised me. The Simon who was hopelessly in love with Agatha. The Simon who could never possibly love me backthe — 

Crowley, my life was a shitshow. I swallowed down the rest of the vodka.

The gasoline-like taste of the liquor pulled me out of my head for a second, and once I started paying more attention to my surroundings, I heard the footsteps against the stone floor. So Simon had decided to find me. But I didn’t want him to follow; not tonight. My fantasies were just that—fantasies. And I wasn’t stupid enough to think that he actually cared about me. Except- 

“Baz?” he called, with some emotion in his voice, though I couldn’t place what it was specifically with the vodka in my system. This had never happened before. “Baz?”

“Simon?” I impulsively called back, before realizing that I had not only revealed my location to him, but that I had called him by his first name. _Aleister Crowley._

Without seeming like he had heard my mistake, he went on, “What were you talking to Agatha for, you tosser? You bloody well know that she’s my girlfriend. I’m going to fucking prove to her that you’re a vampire, Baz.”

Ah, that was his reason. Well it was hardly surprising. I dragged myself off the floor and began walking down another path. If I got back to the room before him, maybe Simon would think that he had imagined it all.

* * *

**4.**

I restlessly tapped my foot under the table as I waited for Dev and Niall to serve themselves breakfast. It was the morning after Wellbelove discovered my vampirism and Snow and Bunce had just _suddenly disappeared_ in the Wavering Wood and I had barely slept a wink. 

Snow had gotten out alive from so many scrapes over the years that this one shouldn’t have affected me. Still, last night felt different—and that terrified me. 

“You all right there, mate?” Niall asked, sitting down next to me. “You look exhausted.”

“Just right and dandy. Seeing the Chosen One and his sidekick vanish in the middle of the night made it really easy to sleep,” I snapped.

“Fine. Be that way if you want to, Baz.” Niall began to eat his food in silence.

An inkling of guilt squirmed into my stomach. Niall deserved better than that. But I had a reputation to maintain, even with my friends, and so I held my ground and didn’t say anything until Dev arrived, plate laden with food.

He looked between us, likely seeing the scowl on my face and the sullenness on Niall’s. Placing his plate down on the opposite side of the table, he started on his breakfast without a word. Silence—just what I needed this morning. 

Which meant that I would have to start the conversation. Lovely.

Just as I had swallowed my dignity and began to open my mouth, Dev finally spoke, “So, do we have any plans for the holiday, lads?” 

A nice, innocuous topic, thankfully. When Dev wasn’t purposefully being an arse, he could be counted on to read the room.

“I think my father wants me to tour a few universities for after graduation,” I replied. It was a bit of a daunting thought, to be completely honest. The idea of leaving Watford, the place I had called my home for seven years—and my mother’s final resting place—was a terrifying unknown. 

Of course I’d do well in university. Frankly, I would probably thrive; I had always done very well in school. 

(But was I _actually_ capable of making friends? Of not being ostracized because of my vampirism? Or would I just continue to pine for Snow and be miserable? My old mate the self-loathing was rearing its head once again.)

“-and I’m sure my father wants to tour some fancy unis too, you know—family tradition and all,” Dev was saying once I pulled my head out of my thoughts. “What about you, Niall? Are you going to be checking out British or Irish unis this summer?”

“Both, probably? My family isn’t quite as traditional as yours, so probably no Oxford or Cambridge for me, though.”

Dev snorted a little, “As if I could get into either with my grades.”

“At least they’re better than Snow’s,” Niall retorted. I couldn’t help but snicker at this. Even if I was hopelessly in love with Snow, I was also painfully aware of his faults—a holdover from all of the time that I had spent hating and antagonizing him (though I still continued to do the latter).

But seriously, the thought of Snow—absolute numpty at schoolwork that he was—attending a prestigious university could make anyone laugh.

Unfortunately, Dev seemed to take me laughing as a sign of an improved mood: “Speaking of Snow, what the hell happened last night, Baz? Did Bunce and Snow disappear as part of their usual shenanigans?”

My dour mood returned at the mention, and I glowered at him. He stared back, not backing down. _Cousins_. Why couldn’t he at least know when to shut up, like Niall did? 

Dev continued looking at me like _that_ , though, and I knew that he was going to be like this all day if I didn’t acquiesce. Fine. “I was in the forest, with Wellbelove. Snow misinterpreted what we were doing and burst into the clearing to yell at us, with his sidekick tagging along. One minute they were there, and the next they weren’t. That’s all I can tell you.”

Dev and Niall gaped at me. 

“They- they teleported?” Dev asked. “ _Aleister Crowley._ ”

“I suppose if anyone could figure out how to teleport, it would be Snow and his insane magickal power,” Niall added. 

“Yeah, you said he was furious because he misunderstood what you and Agatha were doing alone in the forest,” Dev eyed me suspiciously. He’d seen me flirt with Wellbelove before, in order to attract Snow’s attention. And I hadn’t come out to him yet; I was sure he suspected us of doing something sexual together, vile as that thought was to me. “Maybe he went off.

I had to doubt that. I’d felt Snow when he was about to go off before (usually because I antagonized him into doing so). He had indeed gotten angry, but had disappeared well before the level of going off. I mentioned this to Dev and Niall.

Dev shrugged, resigned, “Well, I’m all out of ideas. Let’s just say it was Snow being a freak of nature again and be done with it.” His breakfast finished, he began standing up, and we walked back to Dev and Niall’s room in Mummers.

“Seriously though, are you okay, Baz?” Niall asked, once we arrived.

“I’m fine.”

He eyed me suspiciously, and I—despite myself—felt a bit bad. Dev and Niall had been loyal friends for years now, and it _would_ help to talk about last night’s events.

(It’s not like they would hate me for that. They wouldn’t hate me until I told them that I was a vampire.)

“Fine. If you really want to know, it- it was rather alarming, to see them so suddenly disappear and not return. And I don’t know what’s going to happen, if they got stuck in some interdimensional portal because of the sketchy logistics of teleportation, or if they ended up in another country, or surrounded by enemies, or the Humdrum, or _vampires_. There’s no precedent for this whatsoever," I was rambling now, but I couldn’t stop. All the worries that had kept me awake were resurfacing now. “What if they’re fucking slaughtered out there, with no help from the Mage at all? What if they never come back, like- like my mother? Crowley, if Simon doesn’t come back, is there even a reason for me to live anymore?”

From the corner of my eye, I could see Dev and Niall _look_ at each other. Ah. It had probably not been my best idea to unload that all on them.

“So…” Dev was looking for words, I could tell. “You can’t live without _Simon,_ huh? Is there anything you want to tell us, cuz?” He smirked.

I let out a sigh of relief that he didn’t seem overwhelmed or disgusted. And then I threw a pillow at his face—it wouldn’t be the best to let Dev get used to teasing me over liking Simon, would it?

* * *

**5.**

It was dark—too dark. I could barely move, the space was very confined. I’d never been claustrophobic, but if I was here for much longer it may have very well happened. I tried to shout, to scream, but my voice sounded muffled even to my own ears and I was scared of prematurely using too much air. 

_Where am I?_

And just as I thought that, I knew. Somehow, even though I would swear I had escaped, I was in that fucking coffin again. 

No. No. I couldn’t be here—Fiona rescued me! I returned to Watford! 

I kicked the top of my coffin, hoping against all hope that it would actually open now. (Though why would it open now, after weeks of trying, the logical part of my mind asked. I didn’t—couldn’t—pay attention.) I shouted for help until my voice got hoarse.

This seemed to go on for forever, and then suddenly my body began shaking—though not of my own volition.

“Baz. Baz! Wake up, this is all just a nightmare,” came a voice, seemingly from far away. “Baz, Baz!”

And then I was in my room at Watford, lying on my rumpled sheets, with Simon Snow standing above me.”

“Simon?” I asked, almost involuntarily, with distress in my voice. “Are you real?”

“Am I—real? Yes, Siegfried and Roy, I’m real, Baz. That was just a nightmare.”

 _Oh._ Simon Snow just woke me up from a nightmare about the fucking numpties, and I called him _Simon_. Bloody great job there, Pitch, at pretending you’re not in love with him. I was a colossal disappointment to my name.

Thankfully, it had been a few days since we officially established a truce. This would have been much more embarrassing had I still had to consider him a rival.

Since I had probably been silent for a weird amount of time, I said, “Well thank you, Snow. I… appreciate you waking me up from the nightmare. Now, good night.”

“You called me Simon before.” _He had noticed?_ Great snakes.

I tried to preserve my dignity, “No I didn’t. Now, _good night_.” I laid down, hoping to get a few more hours of sleep before classes started. 

Snow did as well, but sat up only a few seconds later. “Hey, Baz? What was your nightmare about? Not that you have to tell me or anything, but…”

If it were anyone else, I would have immediately refused. Hell, this was Simon Snow, the man that I was supposed to fight to the death someday—I should have refused him too. But, damn my soft heart, I couldn’t say no to him. I’d already told him about being kidnapped by the numpties, anyway; it wasn’t like I could look any more pathetic in his eyes. 

“You’d better not laugh at me, Snow.”

“I would never! I’m not _you_ , Baz.” _Ouch._ That had hurt, but I had to admit that it was true. 

“Fine. Well, I was back in the coffin, the one the numpties kept me in for weeks. It was dark, and I was panicking, unable to get out. I imagine that I was shouting and thrashing? That was me trying to escape.” I said this all coldly and methodically, trying to keep any of the residual fear from entering my voice.

(That would be _too_ weak, and I couldn’t show my weakness in front of Snow—no matter how much I wanted to at times.)

“Yeah, you were. I wondered what that was all about.” He paused for a second, thinking something over. “You know that a nightmare’s nothing to be ashamed of, right, Baz? I have them all the time.”

I’d known _that_. I’d been woken up in the middle of the night many times by Snow tossing and turning in his bed; sometimes he even screamed. I hated those nights with a passion, having to watch Snow suffer and not being able to do anything about it without alerting him to my disgusting _softness_. Once in a while, when it was an unusually bad dream, I would cast **_“Sweet dreams”_** on him, but I (shamefully selfish, as always) could never do it frequently. 

“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” I replied. 

“It’s okay to be traumatized, Baz.”

Bitterly, I spat, “Even by fucking _numpties_? Crowley, Snow, even you—the worst Chosen One to ever be chosen—aren’t _that_ pathetic.” 

He recoiled, and turned away from me. 

I sighed. I shouldn’t have felt guilty for that—I’d said many worse things to Snow in the past, and never apologized once. But still, I did. (I disgusted myself.)

I’d ignored my feelings of guilt many times before, but I didn’t want to ruin our fledgling alliance before it even really got started, so I gave up. “Fine. I apologize for snapping at you, Snow, and acknowledge that nightmares aren’t shameful. Happy?” 

He grinned a bit (in an obnoxiously cute fashion). “I’d be happier if you called me Simon again.”

_Did he have to bring that up again?_

“I told you. That never happened, Snow. Now go to bed so you won’t be as terrible as usual in class tomorrow.”

He snickered, “Good night, Baz.”

“Good night.”

* * *

**+1**

I woke up in a bed that was not my own and unusually warm. That was odd. Even in the best of times, I tended to run cold.

Then I looked next to me, and _ah_ —that explained everything. Simon Snow, the lovable idiot, was lying next to me, wings spread out on the bed and tail wrapped around my ankle as we cuddled on his bed.

His face was serene, clearly still asleep, and I felt my love for him well up in my chest. Cheesy as it was, looking at Simon’s sleeping face without worrying about him waking up had seemed like an unattainable dream back in fifth year. Getting to _sleep in the same bed_ as him? It was simply unfathomable.

We’d been dating for a while now, but the thrill never wore off for me. The months of long distance had been difficult, and now that I’d graduated from Watford, I spent all the time I could with him. 

He began to stir, opening his eyes and stretching his arms as he sat up.

“Good morning, love,” I said, smiling. I was such a sap with Snow, it was almost embarrassing.

He yawned, “Good morning, Baz. Do you think Penny made breakfast today?” It had always been genuinely impressive how much Snow thought of food at Watford, and nothing had changed even after he’d left.

“I doubt it. Didn’t she make pancakes yesterday?”

“Guess it’s my turn, then. Want to help me make scones, Baz?”

“Sure.” I’d do just about anything for Simon Snow. Making scones with him? It was an easy yes. 

Not bothering to change out of our pyjamas, Snow and I walked to the apartment’s kitchen. It was well-stocked—baking was one of the best activities for Simon to keep himself busy these days, and so he and Bunce regularly had multiple batches of baked goods at once.

I gathered ingredients around the kitchen for him, and Snow assembled the batter while I watched. I knew that the past few months had been difficult for my boyfriend, but they had been some of the best of my life. For the first time in a while, I didn’t have to keep so many of my feelings close to my chest. I was _allowed_ to express my love for Simon Snow, and that was perhaps my favorite thing ever. (Yes, I was a sap about him. So what?)

Snow put the scones in the oven, and after a while (during which we snogged, and danced together to Bowie, and also cleaned because he had made a mess of the kitchen) we had our very own batch of sour cherry scones. 

Snow took the first few, of course, and then I asked, “Snow, can I have a scone?”

“Not until you call me Simon,” he said, a mischievous smile on his face. For that smile, I’d do anything.

“Fine. Then will you give me a scone, _Simon_?” I asked, smiling. 

He handed one over: “Sure, Baz.” It was delicious.

“Can I kiss you, Simon?”

“Always, Baz.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you want to chat about this or Carry On or Snowbaz, feel free to hit me up at my [tumblr](https://andanteavians.tumblr.com)


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